


Assurances

by dandywarhol



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, also yuri is 18, lots of fluffy antics ensue, otabek's visiting his friend yuri in st. petersburg, otayuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandywarhol/pseuds/dandywarhol
Summary: Otabek Altin was sure of lots of things. He knew he loved skating, knew he was good at it, and knew he'd do what had to be done in order to reach the top. His friendship with a certain Yuri Plisetsky had always been different, however. There was a lack of control, a spontaneity that often left him blindsided. When it came to Yuri, Otabek was helpless.aka: A trip to St. Petersburg changes things when they realise they're both stupidly in love.





	1. Chapter 1

Otabek Altin would like to say he’d had little thought on the matter of beauty. He had skating to focus on – if he wanted to reach the top, he could not afford distraction. But Otabek Altin had always been a romantic.

It resided from a young age. His grandmother was a storyteller, weaved intricate tales of distant lands and eternal love, and Otabek was hooked on her every word. His parents would drag him to bed each night, a quick peck to his forehead each, before leaving him in darkness. In dreams, however, her stories would live on.

Unfortunately, his older sister had always found the stories tasteless – “He will only grow disappointed when he realises these fantasies are not his to live, _apa_.” As he aged, the details of his grandmother’s tales became hazy and lost, and it was perhaps the words of his sister that stuck with him the most.

In actuality, Otabek had thought a lot about beauty. It presented itself to him without fail, in everything those around him did. He thrived off beauty: from the gradual stir of a city steeped in morning sunlight, to the rare cloudless sky as the sun sets once more. It surrounded him indefinitely, in more ways than he would currently dare to admit.

Hesitantly, Otabek dared a glance out the window to his right. The sheer height made his head spin, but the view was appreciated. Clouds settled below and above, a vast expanse of salmon pinks and marigold yellows rested. Admittedly, it was beautiful. 

Overall, however, his flight to St. Petersburg was exhausting. The cabin’s stale air gave Otabek a migraine and the itchy material of his seat scratching at his skin did little to help the matter. Though he tried to distract himself with his thoughts, he found them irritating more than anything, and sucking on mints was only making his mouth dry. Claustrophobia was settling tightly within him, slowly but surely, and he was truly irate.

It was no surprise, therefore, that he was first off the plane.

Though the clinical grey of his surroundings still pounded his brain, Otabek was relieved to reach baggage claim.

Relieved, more so, when his bag was the first to fall down onto the conveyer belt.

Relieved, undoubtedly, when he stepped through the automatic doors to see Yuri Plisetsky waiting impatiently at the barrier ahead.

Relieved, entirely, when Yuri’s eyes met his. To anyone else, Otabek might have looked overwhelmingly uncaring, lips settled in a thin line and face held high.

His affection showed itself in little ways, however. Yuri knew this. You just had to get closer to see it.

That’s what Yuri did. He ran. Otabek waited patiently, placing his bag down, hands to his side.

Then, Yuri was close. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, to feel the warmth of his unwavering stare, and to hear the hitch in Otabek’s breath as Yuri wrapped his hands around his neck and brought him in for a hug.

“I’m glad you’re here, Beka,” Yuri beamed.

“Me too,” Otabek replied.

They parted not a second later, small smiles exchanged between fleeting glances. If Otabek had any doubt of joining Yuri in St. Petersburg, it was sure banished in that moment. Wherever Otabek was, if Yuri was alongside him, it felt strangely like home.

But he had to stop this kind of thinking for, though now eighteen, Yuri still felt impossibly beyond his reach. Otabek thought back to a particular conversation of theirs, when Yuri was still young and impressionable and dazzling in his naivety. They had been drunk, alone in the darkness of his old apartment, but the memory was undeniably distinct.

_“Beka,” Yuri slurred, moving impossibly closer to Otabek, wet hair splayed across his flush neck and a grin imprinted across his similarly red cheeks – a stark contrast to the gentle affection in his eyes, “Why do you think we spend so much time together?”_

_It was a simple question, but Otabek choked nonetheless, unsure he remembered quite how to breathe. In his words was no ridicule or torment, only a genuine curiosity Otabek couldn’t help but find endearing._

_“We enjoy each other’s company,” Otabek replied plainly, as if the answer was obvious and simple and, at the time, it was._

_“Nothing else?” Yuri pouted, shuffling closer again, practically on Otabek’s lap on this worn, aging sofa and Otabek could do nothing but stare as Yuri licked his plump lips and moved a hand to his chest, where his heart was pounding and–_  

_A kiss. Their lips brushed, light as feather and soft as snow. No fireworks or earthquakes or anything big. It was straightforward in the best way._

_But Otabek forced himself to pull away, pushing faintly at Yuri’s chest. “No. Not yet.”_

_Yuri had screamed at him plenty that night, his intoxicated state making him terribly riotous and bad-tempered. Beyond the anger, however, was an overwhelming sense of rejection. Equally inebriated, Otabek did not have the words to properly explain._

_Both were left confused, their bodies uncomfortably heavy and heart undoubtedly empty that night._

Two years had passed between the pair, the incident unheard of since. Drunkenness was the unspoken culprit, the reasoning to such events. Yuri was young and he had since changed. Their friendship had never suffered from it thankfully and had, in fact, strengthened itself in small ways after. That’s how they managed and that’s how things went.

“You look tired,” Yuri observed, going to grab his friend’s luggage and start the journey to the taxi rank. The young man, of course, did not get far after realising the sheer weight of the suitcase, “Jesus, what the fuck is in here?!”

“Clothes, mostly,” Otabek chuckled, removing the case from Yuri’s tight grasp and hauling it along himself, “And I am tired. The flight sucked.”

“Unsurprising,” Yuri replied, and then the two settled into a comfortable silence. There was no need to overwhelm the other within minutes of his arrival. They had plenty time.

Drifting in and out of sleep, the static flow of Tchaivosky from taxi’s tinny stereo plaguing his ears, Otabek felt as if he were floating. A bump in the road would jolt him awake, but the calming ripple of a passing river was enough to send his eyes fluttering closed again. Yuri found the whole thing quite captivating – not that he’d ever admit he was looking.

Eventually, though, they reached their destination and Yuri felt a strange sense of guilt as he gently shook Otabek awake. Bleary-eyed, Otabek all but fell out the car door, grabbing his suitcase before the taxi drove away.

“No lift, still?” Otabek grimaced, squinting incredulously at the staircase ahead. A side-glance at Yuri’s sheepish face was enough to confirm it. The journey to the building’s top floor was a long one.

 “You want food?” Yuri glanced at his friend as he locked the door behind him, allowing a small smile to grace his lips.

“Takeaway?” Otabek replied, sparing Yuri the trouble of cooking.

“Sure,” Yuri promptly placed the order they always had, having saved the takeout’s number into his phone. 

It was surprising how easily they fell into routine, Otabek thought, as he dropped to the couch with no sentiment of grace. Yet something felt different, he found, showing only in the small, quiet moments: supercharged electricity circulating between them.

It put him on edge. It made him think there was something there. Something more. For Otabek – the romantic, the boy who dreamt of fairies and knights, the man who saw beauty in everything – that was a risky thing.

A disgruntled sigh from above brought Otabek back to normality. “Are you going to move your big fat legs so I can sit down or what?” Yuri said, arms crossed.

“No, I think my big fat legs are fine where they are actually,” Otabek knew to shield himself from a slap to his chest, and equally knew that grabbing Yuri’s wrists would _really_ infuriate him, but he did it anyway. The younger boy went red in the face, struggling to break free and failing miserably. 

“You’re a bitch, Beka, you know that?” Yuri exhaled, finally pulling himself away from Otabek’s grasp as it loosened. 

“Yeah,” Otabek agreed, making room for Yuri on the couch seconds later. Cramped but manageably comfortable, legs overlapping just slightly, they waited impatiently for their food. Pulling a book from the top of his backpack, Otabek settled quickly into the cushions and began to read. Yuri, on the contrary, pulled his phone from his jacket’s pocket – it never was far from his reach – and scrolled mindlessly through Instagram. He soon got bored. 

“What you reading?” Yuri prodded the book with his foot, then Otabek’s hand, then Otabek’s arm. If nothing else, Otabek could vouch that the boy was a complete nuisance.

“Poetry. Walt Whitman, actually,” Otabek’s face formed a half-smile, “You should read some." 

Yuri scowled. “Isn’t poetry for pretentious old white men who have nothing better to do than complain about their snotty little lives?”

“Maybe,” Otabek raised his eyebrows, considering the idea, “But I like it anyway.”

Yuri still didn’t seem convinced, huffing the stray hairs from his eyes as he took to prodding Otabek once more. The food arrives soon enough and Otabek supposes half an hour passes fast when Yuri’s feet are being shoved in his face.

As the two settle onto the floor – Yuri would not forgive him if he dropped any food onto his tiger print cushions, after all – and their mouths are stuffed with St. Petersburg’s finest junk food, they start to regain energy. Yuri became more animated in his movement, hands flailing as discussion flowed, and Otabek has to remind him more than once that if he drops his container he won’t be the one to clean it up. Similarly, Otabek had temporarily shaken off the oncoming jetlag in favour of catching up with his friend, plastic fork in one hand and the other patting Yuri’s cat, Desna, who had appeared only when the smell of food washed over the house. 

As always, Yuri did most of the talking. Not that Otabek minded. Rather, he revelled in the opportunity to soak in all that Yuri was. The way he stumbled over his words when he was all too excited and wanted to say everything at once was perhaps what Otabek missed the most.

And what did Yuri miss the most? Having Otabek listen. He enjoyed his eyes trained solely on him, captivated and occupied. He liked the small sounds Otabek would make in agreement, small murmurs that were barely there, but he caught them. Most of all, he savoured the moments where Otabek would disagree, a devil’s advocate to his words; for as quiet as Otabek was, he was as stubborn as Yuri too, and it made any small discussion seem more like a fight to the death. The two could argue all night if they pleased, but eventually one would give in. Usually, it was Yuri. 

Otabek thought back to one particular argument they had shared at last year’s Grand Prix Final. 

_As the time edged closer to 4AM, Otabek found himself increasingly exhausted and, persistent as he was, sleep was calling. “Agree to disagree?” he found himself saying, eyes heavy and muscles aching. This was one time he’d just have to lose._

_“Ha!” came a victorious cry through his phone, rousing Otabek from the onset of his slumber, “You wish!”_

_Yuri hung up. Otabek promptly slept for the few remaining hours he had._

_The next day, down at the dining hall, Otabek considered the whole ordeal a thing of the past. He was wrong. Yuri bounded across from the breakfast bar, croissants in hand, plopping down into the seat next to his friend with an unforgiving glare._

_“If it’s meant to be pronounced gif, then tell me why the creator says jif, hmm?!” Yuri questioned triumphantly, shoving his phone into Otabek’s face with further proof. A lack of sleep was obvious in his shaking hands and unkempt hair. Had Yuri seriously been up all night with this?_

_Otabek remained expressionless, “He’s wrong. It’s gif.”_

_The unadulterated fury the dining hall experienced that day was something not even those closest to Yuri could have imagined._

_“Fine! Fucking fine! Literally just,” Yuri tugged at his hair, “Holy hell, just leave me alone! Your voice, I’m sick of it, I’m sick of your goddamn voice! Bye!”_

_Otabek only smiled. Though he seldom won such battles, he took his victories in his stride. This was one to remember._

Hours passed like mere minutes. Food long forgotten, they had continued to talk, Yuri moving back up to the sofa and claiming it his own, whilst Otabek rested against the table behind. Occasionally, Desna would make a beeline for the leftovers, and Yuri would scold her for not more than a second before immediately apologising and giving her a piece. Such antics continued until there was no food left and Otabek wondered, honestly, how the cat wasn’t dead from sheer obesity already.

When the clock hand struck twelve, they knew it best to sleep, having mercy on their morning selves. A feeling lingered between them as they separated into their own rooms – Yuri having decked the guest room appropriately in time for Otabek’s arrival – lips parted as if they each had something important to say. 

For now, however, all they said was goodnight.

The night passed quickly and sunrise was unforgiving. Truth be told, Otabek couldn’t complain; it was his own fault for staying up so late, urging his fatigued and jetlagged body to work far beyond its capacity. All the same, the summer sun, even if hidden behind a lightly overcast sky, burned his eyes and forced him awake. The day began here.

The unfamiliar surroundings played with him a bit: walls closer than they should be, bed in the wrong corner, bookcase to the right instead of the left. He felt an overwhelming need to unpack and familiarise, and kept the thought at the forefront of his mind as he stumbled into the living room and towards the kitchen.

It became clear through the silence that Yuri was yet to wake (Otabek was used to this, Yuri was as far from a morning person as could be) and so, Otabek took it upon himself to make breakfast. With what little they had, that was. 

Desna in tow, Yuri soon emerged from his bedroom, yawning, hair settling in loops on his shoulders, adorned only in an over-sized hoodie and boxer briefs. A chill ran down Otabek’s spine. It was unexpected, and he inwardly cursed himself for being so malleable in Yuri’s presence.

 _Beautiful_. Otabek refused to use the word. It would be admitting something he was not yet ready to admit.

“Isn’t that my hoody?” he instead opted for, hoping the light pink painted across his cheeks went unnoticed as he turned back to the skillet.

“Yeah, so?” Yuri replied, grumpy and dazed.

“Keep it. Suits you more than me.” Though his words were said with indifference, Otabek’s deepened blush told another story entirely. He kept his eyes unwavering on the eggs in front of him, willing it to leave. He risked a glance back at Yuri. He was smiling.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” Yuri grumbled as a plate was placed in front of him, “and you didn’t even ask me how I like my eggs so, y’know.”

“You like them poached,” Otabek said matter-of-factly, “but I don’t have those types of culinary skills. So, eat.”

Yuri snorted and grabbed the pepper shaker, all but drowning his meal in the stuff. 

“Is my cooking really that bad?” Otabek joked, spreading what he’d deduced as peach varenye across his toast.

“Pretty much,” was Yuri’s sharp reply, with one last tilt of the shaker before he placed it back down. He ate it all regardless, Otabek duly noted.

Otabek didn’t want to stare, didn’t want to test the boundaries of their friendship, but it was hard. Somehow, in this stuffy apartment, with its beige walls and beige ceilings, as the weak sun trickled in through the open windows, Yuri still managed to exude a natural grace. He didn’t know whether this angered or enthralled him. When Otabek awoke, there was nothing more than the musk of aftershave dispersed through the sheets. Yet, with Yuri, there was an aura. It carried through into the living room, and to the kitchen too, a radiance that overwhelmed Otabek’s senses and brought a fire to his eyes. He didn’t know how to react to any of it.

In his thoughts, he indulged in the idea of grabbing at Yuri’s waist from behind, sinking his nails into the other boy’s bony flesh, holding him close. Otabek imagined moving his hands up the slender expanses of pale skin, under the soft fabric of his hoodie, and then back down again, lower and lower–

The fantasy was not his to live. It was not fair on Yuri and certainly not on himself either. Things were not like that between them, he had to remind himself.

Leaning against the kitchen’s only counter, Otabek took a small bite of his toast, “I expect you’ll be taking me sightseeing today?”

Yuri nodded. “So, hurry up and get in the shower already. You stink.”

“Charming as ever, Yura,” Otabek placed his plate on the side, dusting the crumbs from his hands, and headed to the bathroom.

Had Otabek turned back around, he’d have saw Yuri, eyes wide, with a crimson tint across the bridge of his nose. _Yura_. Yuri loved it when he called him that, a collection of rare but savoured moment in his mind.

But Otabek did not turn back, giving the younger boy time to let the blush settle into a healthy glow as he haphazardly jammed his plate into the sink and fed Desna. Such trivial tasks could almost convince Yuri he was an adult now, it seemed. 

A man of efficiency, Otabek took only minutes in the shower. “Sorry,” Otabek spoke as he exited the bathroom, running slender fingers through his damp hair, “I forgot to bring shampoo with me, so I had to use yours. That okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Yuri replied, shrugging his shoulders. 

*** 

As it turned out, there was reason to why Otabek using his shampoo was, in fact, not okay. The scent of lemongrass plagued his every step down the streets of St. Petersburg, worsening in the bustle of Nevsky Prospekt, his proximity to Otabek increasingly closer as strangers clambered by. Yuri did not have an issue with the lemongrass itself; rather, the issue was that it smelled so good on him. Yuri loved the intimacy and domesticity of Otabek using something of his, however superficial it seemed, and the odour only served a constant reminder. It was driving him mad.

“Problem?” Otabek questioned as they rounded a corner, discerning his particular lack of noise as peculiar. His total obliviousness only infuriated Yuri further.

“No,” replied Yuri through gritted teeth, “Not at all.” 

Otabek only raised his eyebrows, considering silence his safest option. The unbridled temperament of the young man was best left untouched in times like these. 

In the silvery haze of a dreary summer’s day, they walked in a calm silence amidst talkative crowds. Occasionally, Otabek found his eyes wandering downwards, settling intently on Yuri’s hand hanging conspicuous by his side, and pondered the consequences of grabbing it there and then. 

“Oh, wait, stop walking,” Yuri came to an eventual halt, Otabek taking a moment to realise and follow suit, “This is it. _Tserkovʹ Spasa na Krovi_.”

He looked up. “It’s beautiful,” Otabek observed, taking in the bold colours and curves of the architecture. It was garish and obtrusive, for sure, but in a dignified sort of way that came only from buildings of centuries passed. It had a history to it, that much was clear. “Are you religious, Yuri?”

“Nah,” Yuri exhaled, “Grandpa is, but I guess I just never really believed it. Are you?”

“Vaguely. When you’re made to pray five times a day, it’s sort of ingrained,” Otabek sighed, “I’m not sure I agree with some of it, though.” 

Hands in pockets, the pair remained staring at the church for a while longer. “It looks nicer when it’s snowing,” Yuri said sheepishly, sparing a glance at Otabek, head tilted to reveal his sculpted jaw and long neck, Adam’s apple extruding more than usual. Yuri tried his best not to get lost in the alluring sight.

“Does it?” Otabek consulted, a small smile playing on his lips, “I’ll have to see it sometime.”

The words were unspoken, but they both knew what that meant. Come winter, Otabek back in St. Petersburg, walking once more at Yuri’s side.

“Anyway,” Yuri shook his head lightly, “Want to get some food? I know a place.”

Otabek nodded and let Yuri lead the way.


	2. Chapter 2

“Grandpa and I come here whenever he visits, you see, so we’re pretty much known as regulars,” Yuri rambled, a fondness in his voice with the mention of his grandfather, “The guy who runs the place, Dmitryj, he’s great – you’ll love him.”

Yuri’s joy was irrepressible, exerting itself through the occasional skip in his step or overly animated gesture and to the average man, would probably become rather exasperating. But never with Otabek. He was content for as long as it took Yuri to burn the excess energy, enjoying his more playful side. Often, it meant Yuri was a lot closer to him and in this particular instance that meant grabbing him by the arm and squeezing tight as he pulled him along through the throng of passer-by’s. 

As time passed, Otabek felt the hand inch lower and lower, pinching at his forearm by the time they reached their destination. Otabek wished the journey had been longer and that the hand had eventually found its way into his own. 

Otabek observed the restaurant before him. It certainly didn’t look much, light blue walls and a chequer floor with only two inhabitants lounging out front, but he trusted Yuri. Specifically, Yuri’s taste in food. 

In typical fashion, Yuri led the way, a few strides ahead and already greeting who Otabek assumed was Dmitryj from across the restaurant. Otabek had never seen Yuri so at ease, unless with his grandfather or perhaps himself, and it surprised him. He wondered how Dmitryj of all people had gained such trust from the younger man.

“Yura!” came the large, booming voice of Dmitryj as he all but waddled across the floor towards them, “Welcome! Welcome! You bring an unfamiliar face, I see.”

“This is Otabek Altin, a skater friend of mine,” Yuri beamed as he dropped into a seat towards the back. Otabek gave a courteous nod before sitting himself opposite Yuri, grabbing a menu from the table and busying himself with its contents. He barely made it past the fish before it was snatched from his grasp. Yuri smiled, “I’ll order for you.”

Otabek left him to it. Dmitryj soon made off towards the kitchen and the two were alone once more. 

“So, what do you think?” Yuri questioned, leaning forward. 

Quite honestly, Otabek thought the dimly lit place would benefit from a refurbishment, its features dull and outdated, but he daren’t say any of that. Instead, he gave the place another once-over, as if evaluating, and shrugged, “It’s modest.”

Yuri beamed as though that was the best answer Otabek could give. Moments later, Dmitryj made a brief return, placing two small crystal glasses on the table with a wink. “On the house,” he explained. Otabek eyed the clear substance cautiously, bringing it to his nose, and was instantly revolted. 

Yuri gave a bark of laughter at his scrunched up face, adding insult to injury by downing his own in one go. “You never were good with vodka, Beka,” Yuri reminisced. It was dangerous territory talking about alcohol like this, touching on blotched memories of the kiss and its subsequent argument. An uneasy feeling settled in Otabek’s stomach and the burning sensation of the vodka down his throat, after Yuri’s relentless encouragement, did little to help it. 

The food’s arrival was a blessing. Steam circulated as dishes were placed before them – alongside a second tray of glasses, Otabek grimaced – and the smell of smoked salmon and fresh dough overwhelmed his senses. Yuri seemed equally as pleased and it definitely showed in the way he ate, the next bite stuffed in his mouth before he’d swallowed the last. 

“If only the world got to see this side of you,” Otabek chuckled as he grabbed another pirozhki.

“What do you mean by that?” Yuri scowled.

Otabek looked up from his plate. “It’s not a bad thing, Yura.”

It seemed that was the only explanation Yuri needed, a pleased hum escaping his lips. The alcohol had dispersed itself comfortably in their systems, giving slight warmth to them both as they sunk further into their seats. As fatigue settled, fork finally lowering, Otabek decided no human should be allowed to consume this much food. 

Dmitryj catered to their table, taking plates with the satisfaction that they were empty, the food too good to go untouched. They had eaten it all. “I wonder where the food goes,” he cackled, “You are only small.” 

It was true. Even after a growth spurt, Yuri retained his dainty figure and equally, remained shorter than most. What mattered to him, however, is how he had emerged two inches taller than Otabek – a feat so great, he had mocked the older boy relentlessly for weeks. Two inches was practically nothing, Otabek had argued, but this never stopped him. 

Yuri scoffed at Dmitryj, offended but unable to dispute him. “Can I have some mints with the bill, Dima?” he instead asked. 

“For you, anything,” Dmitryj laughed, bringing the receipt a moment later. Otabek smiled to himself. Mints. Yuri loved mints. It was useless information, really, but he made an important mental note regardless. It was the little things.

***

“Why’d it have to rain as soon as we left?” Yuri huffed, arms crossed as they made their way down the street with hopes of finding a supermarket. Though Yuri had resented the strong scent of lemongrass earlier in the day, he now found himself disappointed as the storm washed it away, leaving only a damp smell in its wake. It wasn’t the same. 

“I don’t know. I’ll tell Mother Nature to hold off next time,” Otabek said, his entirely familiar blunt voice and expressionless face making Yuri laugh. 

“You’re stupid, Beka,” Yuri replied, hair falling over his eyes as he shielded himself from the rain. It made his face impossible to read, but Otabek knew what he was going for anyway. Affection.

As the rain picked up, their search for a supermarket became all the more feverish, Yuri having a particular want to dry off and warm up. It was probably his own fault for not wearing a coat of some sort, but he’d never admit that out loud. 

“Take my jacket,” Otabek took Yuri by surprise, already shoving the leather garment from his shoulders, “Only one of us actually bothered to check the forecast today, clearly.”

Yuri was lost for words. His instinct was to protest, handing the jacket back to Otabek in a flurry, electing to brace the downpour. However, something deeper inside him, something incomprehensible, made it impossible to say no. As he slipped the oversized jacket on, he felt a brilliant feeling erupt inside him.

Before he could stop himself, Yuri grabbed at Otabek’s upper arm in gratitude, all but hanging off the older boy. A blush spread across his cheeks like wildfire, and Otabek’s too, but he didn’t let go, only repositioning himself to make walking easier. 

It’s fine, Yuri told himself, burying his cheek further into Otabek’s side, Friends do this. Friends can be intimate, too.

Their arrival at a local supermarket was both a blessing and a curse. Had it not been causing him to go such an embarrassing shade of crimson, Yuri was sure he could’ve remained by Otabek’s side for a while longer. However, shopping required both arms and Yuri clinging onto one of them was sure to pose eventual problems. If Yuri had taken all but a second before sprinting to the trolleys, he might have noticed Otabek’s slight hesitation at letting go too. 

They meandered the aisles, with Yuri excitedly thrusting bag after bag of strange Russian treats into the trolley. “Do you even remember what we came here for?” Otabek asked, eyeing the overflowing cart disdainfully. Yuri stopped adding things after that.

When they reached the shampoos, a small dispute broke out between the pair. “Just get the lemongrass,” Yuri cried, shoving the bottle Otabek had placed gently back onto the shelf into the trolley once more, “C’mon!”

“No. I like the papaya,” Otabek reasoned, confused with the peculiar exasperation of the younger boy. 

“But I don’t like the smell of papaya!” Yuri whined, slapping Otabek’s hand nearing the shelf again. It was a lie, of course. Yuri actually loved papaya. What he loved more, however, was the thought of Otabek smelling like lemongrass – his lemongrass – every day. 

Otabek blinked. “Why would you be able to smell it?” 

“W-w-well, if we’re close!” Yuri spluttered, taken aback by the question, “On the.. On the sofa or something, y’know? And I’ll be sitting there minding my own business when boom, the smell of papaya. I don’t want that! Nobody wants that!”

“Oh. Well,” Otabek smiled, eyes lit with mirth, “that’s understandable. I guess.”

Otabek dropped the lemongrass shampoo into the cart without another word. To his side, Yuri shook violently with rage, realisation washing over him: Otabek had been taunting him. 

“Fuck you, Beka,” Yuri only grumbled as Otabek’s hands steered the trolley ahead, fingers tapping rhythmically to soft melodies from the speakers above. The store was quiet, their only company in the form of a lifeless old man at the till, eyes hooded and cap low over his face. Otabek revelled in the sheer tranquillity of it all.

Particularly, when his eyes shifted downwards to his friend. Yuri wasn’t just wearing his jacket. Rather, he was flaunting it, shoulders taut and eyes embellished with pride, showing the world just who’s he was – even if there was no one there to see it. Otabek knew that if he weren’t careful, he’d soon donate his entire wardrobe to Yuri. He wanted to know what Yuri looked like in one of his t-shirts, a single pale collarbone exposed as the material draped further down one shoulder. He wanted to see him in his old basketball shorts, waistband riding dangerously low across his hips, the fabric falling more like a skirt. He suits it.

In these fantasies, Otabek imagines Yuri with a sultry smile, time passing in milliseconds as he advances towards him, and all Otabek can do is stare. Not at the expanse of skin creeping beyond his clothes – though this would not go unforgotten entirely – but at Yuri’s face. Behind the lust in his eyes, Otabek sees someone who is anxious with the possibility that he might just fuck up. He sees it because he knows the feeling, feels the same. It’s what makes Yuri all the more overwhelming in his dreams, the raw intensity of wanting to do well for the other.

As Otabek continues to eye the lemongrass shampoo, the fantasies never quite fade from his mind. In a desperate attempt to rid himself of guilt, he blames the vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is more just developing their dynamic together rlly! i don't like to jump straight into things personally cos i need ~history~ to work with and things BUT I PROMISE! BIGGER THINGS! SOON!
> 
> THANK U FOR READING AND YOUR SUPPORT!!!

**Author's Note:**

> apa = grandmother in kazakh  
> varenye = eastern european fruit jam i found whilst researching for this fic (bc i'm a loser who researches these things)
> 
> also who do u agree with on gif/jif front cos personally i am with otabek and proclaim gif the Correct Way (TM)
> 
> anyway, i hope u enjoyed!! this should be multi-chap so WATCH THIS SPACE


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